Rumination (or what happens after you read a book that makes you think too much)

Source: http://www.theguardian.com

“I think I’m waiting to die” I say out loud, to no one really, just myself and the dry air around me. Franklin looks at me, puzzled. He tilts his head, this way and that, trying to discern my meaning, trying to piece together words he’ll never understand unless they’re peppered with commands. He’s waiting for a ‘sit’ or a ‘stay’–some sort of direction as to what he can do for me, to secure himself a treat.

I look into his brown eyes. “I’m just waiting for time to pass until I die, you know?”. My tone rises at the end of my sentence, causing several more head-tilts. He looks at me quizzically, and I begin to explain. “At work, I’m bored out of my mind, I count minutes and seconds and hours. Then I come home. Then at home I count minutes and seconds and hours until I can go to sleep and repeat this entire cycle of counting all over again. I’m counting and waiting to die”.

Franklin reaches out a paw. My gesticulations have confused him. He’s begun his guess-and-check approach, starting with a paw. Soon he’ll roll over, bark, sit–pull out his hat of tricks hoping one will land him what  he desires most: a dog biscuit. If only life were that simple.

I sigh, pulling out my desk chair to walk over and get Franklin a treat. Sometimes I think I’m conditioning stupidity into him by rewarding these random displays.

“Sit” I say sternly. He sits, full of energy, barely controlling his excitement. “Okay” I say, releasing him from his mandatory trance. He snatches the treat from my hand and scampers off to enjoy his reward in peace.

I sit back in my chair, staring blankly at the wall. Too many sobering realities hit me. This is what happens when you read self-help books: you take a close look at your life and have to resist the urge to pull that kitchen knife out of its holster and scrape it fiercely along your skin.

You have to allow your mind to just glaze over, to quiet itself, to find some numbing calm amid the chaos. If you let yourself delve in, it will destroy you. The same sinister questions will assault you: How did I end up here? What the fuck am I doing with my life? What do I want out of life? And, worst of all, Who the Hell Am I?

 

Another excerpt…

Source: wallpapersdesktopdownload.blogspot.com

I staggered to the door. “Hey baby” I said, letting him in. “Hi, how are ya?” he asked as he stepped inside, and started taking off his bag, his jacket, his boots. “I’m gooood” I replied cheerfully. Perhaps a bit too cheerfully. My happy tone seemed to give me away. “You’ve been drinking haven’t you?” he asked. I sensed the frustration and disappointment in his voice. “Just a little. But vodka will help clear all the bacteria out of my throat and it will help me feel better faster!” I exclaimed, though I could tell he wasn’t buying it.

Without a word he started to unpack the groceries, putting everything away in its rightful place. “I’ll start making the soup in an hour or so” he said. He sounded dejected. I would’ve apologized but I didn’t have it in me. It wasn’t my fault. I’d been home for five days straight with no one to talk to and nothing to do except watch TV shows and movies. My brain was rotting and my last refuge was alcohol. Sweet, sweet alcohol that took me away from this place.

I hadn’t seen him since the first day. Since I found out what it was. At first I thought I should be quarantined–I should make sure I don’t spread this to anyone, especially not him. But as the hours dragged on and my loneliness seeped beneath my skin I couldn’t take it anymore. I begged him to come over and he did.

Thing is, he didn’t realize, it was already too late. My fragile pride had already been shattered. I had lain myself bare, reached the pinnacle of vulnerability and rather than defy my timid words he chose to stay away. He chose to agree with me, with what I said and not what I had meant–not what I hoped he would see beneath the surface.

I know what you’re thinking. A woman playing games right? Well that’s just it: I wasn’t. If you knew me at all you’d know how I am. This is me. It’s not a game. Everything I’ve been through has made me who I am, and that means sometimes you need to learn to read between the lines, to hear what I’m not saying, to feel the desire, the longing, the need in my voice.

Well, he missed it like the rest of them. That’s when I decided this was it. I’ve had enough of this roller coaster, I’m ready to get off for good. So we’ll have our meal. He’s a sweetheart, he’ll make me soup and we’ll watch a movie as we slurp it down.

Then when he’s gone, I will save myself. I will rescue myself from all the misery that is to come. If the past foreshadows the future well hell. I’m done. It’s just a mask I’ve worn for so long I’ve forgotten what’s beneath. Forgotten how to get to it. Well now the mask will finally come off, and I will never have to worry about loneliness or solitude or why I love a man more than he loves me.

The joy in my life never outweighed the pain. Not even close. Not even for a second. Well it’s time I take matters into my own hands, forever tip the scales in my favour.

Longing

Source: http://www.scrapwhispers.com

The shadows danced on the walls, casting their mesmerizing spells around us. I glanced at him, immersed in the show, his profile falling into darkness and light against the wall. I ran my fingers over his hands. He turned and smiled at me. That smile that melted me, those eyes so warm and pure and loving. I smiled back, trying to conceal the sadness inside me. His eyes focused on the screen again, his body shook with laughter, the sound fading into the background as my thoughts drowned him out.

God, I loved him. I loved him in a way that terrified me. In a way I wasn’t sure I’d ever really felt before. He was a good man. A really good sweet man who understood me. We seemed to have just the right balance of being completely the same and totally different in ways that mattered, complemented, challenged us. I adored him the more I got to know him.

But like the princess and the pea there was a fear that had slowly planted itself within me from the day we uttered those words, the day we dared to tread shaky ground and have that discussion. So he told me for certain he loved kids. He had nieces and nephews he adored. But that was it. His love for kids rested firmly with those belonging to other people. There was no desire to bear children of his own.

Perhaps in the past, he had said, between mouthfuls of pumpkin ravioli, he thought he wanted kids but the older he got the less he wanted to walk that path. The older he got, the more he wanted to find the woman of his dreams and share his life with her.

I swallowed my white wine in silence taking this all in. I thought well, that’s not really a no for certain. He’s really more on the fence than anything. I told myself regardless it was far too soon to be talking about kids. We’d only just met a few weeks ago.

But now snuggled on the couch next to him, hopelessly in love with him, I wish I’d taken a little bit more time, had a bit more of a discussion with him. It’s hard to let go of someone who feels perfect for you. Especially when life and experience has taught you the rarity, the value of such connection.

But it’s also hard to let go of maternal desires, once you feel them.

A choice I wish I didn’t have to make.

Story excerpt

She purses her lips together, sealing in the bold red lipstick. Watching her lips part, the lines accentuated by the redness of her lipstick, she pouts. She gazes deep into her eyes, explores her features, and satisfied, turns away to find the sequined dress she chose, three months ago, for the occasion.

Slipping into the sequined dress, she pivots before her mirror, examining her figure, running her hands along the shiny sequins, smoothing down her dress.

She feels fabulous. She bought a strapless push-up bra for the occasion and it has already paid off. Her breasts look amazing. It’s times like these she feels powerful and strong. It’s times like these that her confidence soars, and she feels good about herself. She knows what will happen. Men will gaze longingly at her, their stares will linger just a few seconds longer, their heads will turn just a bit faster, and she’ll feel great. She’ll feel worthy and lovable.

Not just that: he’ll see. He’ll see that other men are ogling, are lusting after her, and he’ll know–he has something amazing. Maybe it will even ignite a tiny of flame of jealousy to light a fire beneath him. To give him the little nudge he needs, to propose with full confidence and certainty.

He knows how she feels. She has fantasized about marriage her whole life. She has imagined the moment–walking down the aisle toward the man of her dreams, surrounded by crowds–countless times. She has fantasized about the life she’d live with this man. The house, the garden, the children they would raise–all the pieces of a life she dreamed up years ago.

Now here she was about to celebrate another anniversary, but this one would be different. This time she was holding her breath, anticipating, hopefully expecting a proposal. They’d talked about timelines and potentials and weddings and engagements and she was almost certain–this was it. This was the moment he would propose. He planned this celebration so far in advance, told her to wear something pretty, to save the date, and that very moment her heart rose into her chest and she felt certain. She felt certain this day would be the beginning of the life she always dreamed of.

Just a few more hours and it would all be hers. She reached for the hair spray, and closing her eyes, feeling the mist rain down all around her as she sprayed every last strand of hair and sealed it into place. She put on the silver bracelet he had bought for her last year, and the necklace and earrings that were also gifts of kindness from him.

She picked up her clutch, and went to the door to wait. She felt flush with excitement. Scenes played through her mind–the moment he pulled out the ring, the moment–and she was certain he would–he got down on his knees, tears in his eyes, a look of love and vulnerability on his face. She pictured every detail, so lost in thought it took a few moments for her to register the white envelope abruptly sliding out from beneath the front door. She rushed to the door and opened it: no one was there. Just the white envelope.

A sudden feeling of panic and despair gripped her as she quickly tore into the envelope. A letter:

Dear Stacy,

I love you. You know I’ve loved you for so long. And I will probably always love you. But I can’t do this. I can’t be with you anymore. I think I lost myself somewhere. I think I fell into a fantasy world, I liked the idea of this magical future you always imagined for us. But something isn’t right. It doesn’t feel right. I’m sorry I couldn’t tell you in person. I’m a coward I know. I just couldn’t face you. I couldn’t look into your sad eyes and say these words. They would never come out. They would stick in my throat like a dam holding back water and implode. I’m sorry. I hope that you don’t hate me. I hope that one day you can forgive me. I do love you. I just don’t know who I am or what I want anymore. I feel like I’ve been living in a bubble, a dream, for so long I don’t know where reality is anymore. I don’t know what I want for myself. I need to find some sort of meaning in my life. You are an amazing woman. You will find that prince charming you have always dreamed of, and you will live happily ever after. Please don’t hate me. I really am so sorry.

Tom

 

She stood, immobile. She held the pages in her hands, a slight tremble in her fingers, a complete frenzy in her mind. This must be a joke. This can not be happening. She couldn’t wrap her mind around what had just unfolded. She needed to call him, to see him, to talk some sense into him, to remind him of what they had and who they were. She needed him to let go of his fears, and see the beautiful life they would have together, if they just….if he just…..if he just believed. Now a small sliver of doubt began to break her down. A tiny nagging thought plagued her: what if he was right? What if her vision of the future they would have was just that–her vision?